


keith's special flavahhh

by tootsonnewts



Series: a universe of brews [1]
Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Bar/Pub, M/M, Shiro is There, Tumblr Prompt, Voltron is a bar, brewery au, hunk is perfect, keith is tired, lance is a shit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-02
Updated: 2017-12-02
Packaged: 2019-02-09 17:18:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,829
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12892890
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tootsonnewts/pseuds/tootsonnewts
Summary: “No. I will not tell you what makes it so special,” Keith grits out over the bar, slamming the stranger’s glass down in front of him. This is the millionth time tonight he’s had to say it, and if it were up to him, he’d close down the bar this instant and carry his ass right on home to bed. As it is, it’s only hour three of an eight hour shift and being dead is starting to look seriously attractive."or, when the staff of voltron brewery decided to host specialty brew nights, keith should have known better than to just let lance take the helm.





	keith's special flavahhh

**Author's Note:**

> wel, mal. i sure did it.
> 
> i wrote this after a craft beer discussion with [mal](http://red-paladin.tumblr.com/) on tumblr.

It wasn't supposed to be like this.

It was  _not_ supposed to be like this.

Once the old gods and the new parse through the annals of time to weigh his life on judgement day, Keith is certain they'll see this night and send him floating down the river Styx. A soulless husk could never be allowed into the heavens, after all.

When the specialty brew nights were suggested, everyone was fully and heavily on board. Despite his tendencies for flights of fancy, Lance has an incredible eye for what people like.

“What people like,” he told them at a staff meeting one night, “is craft brews. Real farm to table shit, you know?”

And so, it was decided. Every Thursday night, Voltron Brewery would debut a limited run of a beer inspired by each employee.

Week one was the Lancey Lance, a blueberry IPA that was tart and sweet and strong enough to knock you on your ass (" _L_ _ike yours truly!”_ ). Week two, the Pidgeon, a wheat beer with hints of grapefruit and mint that was fresh and fierce with a smooth finish ( _"_ _It's what Katie deserves!”_ ). Week three, the Hunk, a pineapple cider that was fresh and clean with just a bit of a kick ( _"_ _It feels self explanatory.”_ ).

Tonight was week four. Keith's week. Keith's Thursday. The worst Thursday of his life, honestly.

So far, the flavors were all delicious and well received upon their debut. Really, his was no different. His particular brew was a chocolate habanero stout (“ _It’s dark and mysterious, but also it could kill you! Just like Keith!”_ ). It really was perfect. The flavors were well-balanced and the heat wasn’t overwhelming. The problem, though, didn’t come from the flavor. It came from the name.

See, while everyone else got really complimentary names for their beers, Lance (being the eternal shit that he is) decided to make Keith’s...different.

“No. I will not tell you what makes it so special,” Keith grits out over the bar, slamming the stranger’s glass down in front of him. This is the millionth time tonight he’s had to say it, and if it were up to him, he’d close down the bar this instant and carry his ass right on home to bed. As it is, it’s only hour three of an eight hour shift and being dead is starting to look seriously attractive.

Hunk emerges from the back room with a fresh tray of clean glasses in his arms and sets them down by Keith, leaning on the edge of the counter. “Crazy one tonight, huh?! I think yours is the most popular so far!”

“Yeah, well I wish it wasn’t,” Keith grumbles back, filling up another glass. “You know, when Lance said he had just the right thing for everyone, I should have known better than to just let him go. I really should have. Instead, I get _this_.”

He gestures to the specials board posted along the back wall. There, in all its chalky glory is the reason Keith would rather fling his lifeless body over the edge of the Grand Canyon than be anywhere near this bar tonight.

**Today’s Signature Brew:**

**KEITH’S SPECIAL FLAVAHHH**

**a chocolate habanero stout**

Hunk follows the line of Keith’s gesture and stops at the sign.

“Ah, yeah, that,” he says, rubbing at the back of his head. “Well, you know Lance. Besides, maybe he meant it like, Keith’s Special F-Lava! Y’know, like lava. Because it’s spicy. And you’re spicy...and the beer is spicy like...you?”

He tries, he really does. Keith has to give him credit for committing, because he barrels straight through to the other side of the sentence and punctuates it with lightly crossed arms, as if that makes the thought make any more sense.

“Hunk, what you just said to me was definitely words. It wasn’t meaningful, but damn if it wasn’t a sentence of some type.”

“Um, excuse me,” a voice from across the counter cuts between them. Hunk and Keith both look up at the customer standing patiently at the bar. He’s tall and broad, built like a brick shit house, and devastatingly gorgeous. His jaw is cut like whoever created it really meant business, he’s sporting a black undercut with a flop of white hair crowning the front (which is a...choice, but Keith wears dumb shit all the time so he really can’t complain), and just across his nose is a horizontal scar that just works on him. His hands are propped on the edge of the bar’s surface, and when Keith follows the lines of his muscles down to his hands, he realizes that one of them is metal. _Interesting._

“Sorry to interrupt, I just wanted to order one of the specials.”

Keith keeps staring, because he has _eyes_ , goddammit, so he has no choice. Hunk stares at Keith staring at Muscles McGee and snorts softly in the back of his throat. In the one sign all day of there being a forgiving and merciful higher power, Hunk grabs a glass from the crate he just set down and smiles at the man.

“Sure thing, buddy!”

As Hunk strolls over to the tap to pour the beer, Keith stays stock still in place. The stranger, no, _Adonis_ drums his flesh fingers against the bar as he waits, which snaps Keith out of it. He leaps into action, grabbing a rag and wiping down the counter.

“So, this week’s flavor is yours, huh?”

Keith’s jerks his head up, dropping the rag on the floor. “How did you know?!”

The man laughs lowly and points at Keith’s chest. “You’re wearing a name tag.”

Death. Death would be the sweetest release. Death would be a gift that Keith could never repay. The universe is unforgiving. The universe is cruel. Keith remains upright and breathing. He scowls at her stinginess.

“I forgot about that.”

The stranger looks amused, but says nothing as Hunk returns with his beer. He pulls his credit card out of his wallet, handing it over to Keith.

“Can I start a tab? I’m probably going to want another.”

Keith reaches out with traitorous, shaking hands to take the card. “Yeah, sure. Of course. We do tabs. A tab is a thing you can absolutely have.”

The man smiles, and it’s like that bullshit you see in movies where birds sing, and a single ray of sun shines down from the sky, and angels fly around and sprinkle glitter over the Earth or whatever. Hunk pats Keith on the shoulder, reminding him suddenly of his existence as a human, and as a human who was standing right next to him.

“Well, pal, looks like you’re killing it here. I’m gonna scoot on down the bar, see if Pidge needs me.”

Murder. Keith dreams briefly of murder. He wonders how much trouble he would get in if he takes the knife he always carries and just...murders Hunk. Not a lot. Just a little bit. A light murdering.

The man clears his throat. “Well, I’m Shiro. I’m not wearing a nametag, but in the interest of sharing…”

Keith sniffs a little bit and picks his rag up off the ground.

“Well, it’s nice to meet you Shiro. Don’t ask me what makes the beer special. I can’t have your disappearance on my conscience.”

Shiro’s eyes widen slightly and he laughs, belly-deep and ringing.

“I feel like there’s a story behind what I’m pretty sure is the threat you just made on my life? But I won’t ask if you don’t want me to.”

Keith closes his eyes. It’s a good thing he picked up that rag a second ago, because he just might sob into it in relief. Just big, fat, ugly thank-you-for-not-continuing-my-torture style tears.

“Well, if you must know, when you name something the way Lance named that damn-ass beer, people suddenly get _ideas_.”

“Ideas.”

“They ask _questions_.”

“Questions.”

“ _Yes_ ,” Keith hisses, leaning on the bar on bent forearms. “And do you know how many times it takes for you to get tired of people asking you what makes the flavor special while they wiggle their eyebrows like absolute assholes before it gets old, Shiro?”

Shiro leans slightly forward. “I have a sneaky suspicion that it’s once.”

“It’s once!” Keith confirms, throwing his arms up. Shiro looks amused again.

“Well, Keith, that must be pretty inconvenient.”

“It is. Oh my god, it is.”

“I came for the last few flavors, and they were all named pretty normal. Why is yours different?”

“Lance’s sole purpose on this Earth is to ruin my life.”

Shiro laughs again. “You mean _Lancey_ Lance?”

“The very same,” Keith deadpans.

“Well, not to be crass, but I can’t help but wonder why yours doesn’t get a cute name, too. I mean, you are.”

Every tire on every street of every possible location in the city screeches to a halt in Keith’s head. He looks around the room to check for cameras. There are none, but technology is a real bitch. They could be anywhere.

“Cute, I mean,” Shiro clarifies. “You are cute. I should. I should stop talking, I think?”

Keith looks directly into Shiro’s eyes. They’re wide and shimmering and a little hopeful. They’re pretty. His eyes are like two...big eyes. Keith doesn’t have time for poetry where he’s going. This is the best he can do.

“You are very muscular,” is what he says instead. Yeah. Nailed it.

Shiro laughs again. “That’s not a problem, is it?”

“It is...what’s the best way to call something the complete opposite of a problem? Think of that, and imagine me saying it.”

That fucking smile hits Keith square in the chest. Shiro’s really leaning on his three greatest hits with Keith tonight.

“I’ve been meaning to talk to you for a while now,” he says casually. “I come here sometimes after work with some buddies.”

He gestures over at one of the pub tables and Keith follows the motion, catching on three guys seated around it, eagerly watching their interaction. Keith wants to go back to the deathwish part of the evening. He hates being a spectacle.

“And anyway, they told me tonight was your drink night, and I would have been really disappointed in myself if I didn’t do something with that. So here I am.”

“Here you are.”

Shiro shoots him a cocky grin. “Talking to the drink himself.”

“I hate you.”

“Can you hate me but also give me your phone number?”

“Of course I can.”

“Good,” Shiro takes a sip of the beer, but maintains eye contact with Keith. “This is really good, by the way.”

Keith sees it happening. He feels the rumble of the cattle as they come trotting over the horizon. He feels the static in the air as the lightning gathers in the clouds. He feels his spine stiffening like an alley cat ready to scrap. Shiro wiggles his eyebrows.

“What makes the flavor so special?”

**Author's Note:**

> SPICY BOY.
> 
> you're more than welcome to come see me on [tumblr](http://tootsonnewts.tumblr.com/). we can talk about beer or these dumb boys or shoes or whatever.
> 
> ily bye!


End file.
